Recipe for a Saint: Pigsty and a Virgin!
I snatched up a bottle of booze amid the table cluttered with liquor bottles and side dishes, hurling it effortlessly. The man, raised in the Vatican and called by the codename 262 his whole life, frantically raised his pistol and shattered the incoming bottle—but he couldn't block me as I closed in using it as bait.
The best thing about a brawl is you don't need to measure distances with your opponent or time flashy techniques back and forth. Just charge like an idiot, smash like an idiot, and crush like an idiot. That's the alpha and omega of a street fight.
Bam! I tackled him square in the gut, driving him straight into the table. He groaned as he collided, but like he was showing off his training, he slammed his elbow down on my back. Each blow landing on my spine packed the punch of Kim Domino's fists, but the key was I'd pinned him to the table and grabbed my target.
"Premium jerky!"
I'd had my eye on it from the start. Snatching it before anyone else could, I shoved it in my mouth and chewed it like gum. The salty-spicy juice unique to high-end jerky flooded my mouth. Sure, my busted lip mixed it with blood, so I couldn't fully savor it—but who cares? The point was, I'd finally eaten something real besides instant ramen. It's like the difference between a girl from a girls-can-do-anything anime sucking on a dildo and a married woman sucking a real dick.
"Ignore me and shoot! For Him, I wouldn't even fear death!"
"Really?"
Pounding with fists, stabbing with elbows—he wouldn't shake me off, so maybe aiming for mutual destruction, 262 shouted desperately at his comrades. There was no lie in his words, so no sin fragments to read, but from my view, that made it the biggest sin of all.
I hoisted his gut over my shoulder, lifted him up, then threw myself backward to slam him down reverse-first. Thud! As he hit the ground back-first, he spat out a ragged breath. Coughing and steadying his breathing—that's not what someone craving death should do. No, he should cling to me tenaciously. Isn't that the height of noble sacrifice?
"I've always hated how you zealots yap about martyrdom and shit. Isn't it just a calculated move? 'This shitty life's fucked anyway, so offer it up to the Lord moderately and log off reality quick to hit heaven's hot springs.' Come on, oh, I'm offering my life sincerely for Him! Yeah, sure, sincere as hell—especially when heaven's door is promised wide open. Who wouldn't be?"
Bang! Bang bang! Bullets whizzed into my shoulder, back, temple, everywhere, but I endured silently, staring down at the bastard sprawled on the ground.
"Go find some comfy Christians wallowing in worldly abundance and ask 'em. 'If it's no bother, would you martyr yourself for Him right now?' A hundred out of a hundred will hem and haw before refusing. Martyrdom's just the last escape hatch for bottom-feeders like you—no future, lives already wasted on this crap. Am I wrong?"
"Don't... cough! Insult our faith!"
262 staggered up, gripped his stake sword again, and grabbed my collar. I didn't dodge—smashed my fist into his face instead. My heart already had that stake sword buried in it.
Splat! Thunk! We traded blows almost simultaneously—one of us flew back, the other puked blood. Still, we squared up again.
"I know martyrdom's supposed to be noble, self-sacrificing. History's full of Christians throwing themselves into religious persecution, unstoppable disasters, man-made calamities. But did they think, from the moment they first believed, they'd end as martyrs?"
"...What?"
"Unless you're a prophet, nobody knows their path ahead. By modern standards, you get dragged to church by your parents, sing hymns, get Bible verses crammed in, and before you know it, you're out in the world with the 'good Christian' label. You strive for a righteous life per His teachings—clean, meaningful. Make friends, proselytize, maybe even become His servant if you dive deep. Who among them envisions their end as 'martyrdom'? Nah, they figure pious death by illness or natural causes."
Of course, pilgrims on the path see any believer's death as martyrdom. But the martyrdom I mean is throwing yourself away like an extremist terrorist, offering yourself as a burnt sacrifice to God.
"You must be proud. Fighting foes for Him you believe in without doubt, purifying the world for His joy, unwavering faith to be His faithful servant. End doesn't matter. Am I wrong?"
"What're you getting at?"
"Drop the good-guy act. It's gone from pitiful to disgusting. 'Oh, damn! Look at me! Dumbass who studied hard but bombed college GPA and was headed for rock bottom—but I gave my life for Him! My shitty life had more meaning than any normal fucker's!' What's the difference between you and a parrot locked in a cage, pecking feed from its master and mimicking his words? Beats me."
"We chose this path by our own will."
"Bullshit. I see it all. Some orphan dumped in a convent welfare home, naturally drifting to church. Others knocking on cathedral doors as a last lifeline for their failed lives. Faith brings food; obedience brings power and authority. Hooked on that, even knowing death's the endgame horror, you resign: 'Path's set,' 'Too far gone to turn back.' And when opportunity knocks, you crave martyrdom to ascend to heaven."
I yanked bullets from my body one by one, sneering.
"Your lives are stained with escape from start to finish. Can't break free? Bullshit. You feared the wider world. Fated? Nah, just self-rationalizing to slap meaning on your pathetic fate. Why? Handing everything to Him is easy!"
Right? If this is God's will, that too—why not dump your whole life on His will? So damn convenient.
"No confidence to own your one-shot life, so you pawn choices to Him! Puppet my ass like a marionette! Even a retard like me slaving for You gets heaven entry—'cause that's martyrdom!!!"
"Shut your fucking mouth!!!"
Roaring, 262 charged, gripped the stake sword hilt in my heart, and shoved hard. Pinned against the wall like Jesus on the cross, I was impaled through by the stake sword into the stone.
"We've seen scum like you—wicked, vile—countless times! All you do is tear down others' lives, values, faiths, slyly poisoning minds! You writhe ugly, hoping our ironclad faith cracks! But we won't fall for your vile tricks! Only He guides us to light; even in death's gloomy valley, He's with us—we know you shrivel before our steadfast faith!"
"Cough! National faith-brag fest? You chant faith-faith, but it's 'cause you've got nothing else to lean on. Religion's just a mental crutch. A temporary prop so weak minds don't collapse. From ancient folks to moderns, when disasters hit beyond human power, they cry to gods. Egyptian pharaohs jerked off live on Nile cams daily; primitive natives in the boonies groveled to spirits and nature gods. Why? Without that crutch, they'd face shitty reality head-on!"
"That's the trial He gave us! He wants us to grow spiritually through trials, preparing vast, grand plans for those who do."
"Ah, trials. Classic line. So this sword hilt in my heart—trial too?"
"For heretics like you, such things...!"
"He loves all creation equally, prepares trials and plans for everything?"
I gripped the cross-sword hilt and yanked it out myself.
"Created all, so prepares all for all. Deny that, you're calling Him not omnipotent. Gonna apostatize yourself?"
"!"
"Demons, yokai, heretics, apostates you brag about purging—who made 'em? Holy shit, the same Him who created light first! Don't know Big Bang theory? Anyway, He made primordial light—gotta accept it. So admit: I'm in His trial/plan too. No need to scrap here, right? Ultimate goal: powwow with demons, live well together?"
"......"
"Confusing, huh? If even enemies are His design, what's your fight for? God's will is murky even knowing it. If He arranged everything, you're just Extra A in a massive play. Protagonist even exist? Not me, anyway."
No one claimed hero status; silence.
"That's omnipotence's contradiction."
I approached 262, lost in his faith's maze, patted his shoulder.
"Never needed religion to lean on. It was fated. Shitty start line, brutal training cramming His words, recent comrade's gruesome op-death, vague hope of heaven for dying in service—all scripted. 'Cause your Creator's omnipotent?"
"......"
"Can't even lead your own life proactively, let alone the world. Just one of His puppets He toys with—yet you spout 'I gave all to Him,' 'Death's no fear for Him.' No need for such lines."
"......"
"Keep agonizing, you'll hit one conclusion."
Choosing human life means finger-pointed as apostate/heretic, burned at stake—fine by me. We're humans who think and carve our paths, not mere puppets.
"That's where your 'apostates and heretics' are born."